Sometimes life is not fair; it is messy. You enter a transition phase that throws you into outer darkness.
At these moments in my life, the God I believe in dapples my way with splinters of light. These splinters are tiny pieces of hope and come primarily from two organizations where my writing is showcase or self-publish. One of these groups of authors is simply called The WEP (Write, Edit, and Publish).
I have been writing for them for almost eight years. They have seen me crawl through the quagmire of my mind to find the essence of my writing voice, and this entire community of writers strengthens my hope when I need it.
So today, I say thank you for the GREAT WAVE TEAM CHOICE AWARD, an award that I will cherish. The price of becoming an author is never easy, but it is times like these that make it well worth it.
Here is the link to the Great Wave Winners’ Page and the announcement of the award given to me.
It is also worth taking the time to read some of these authors. They are a fabulous group of writers. The links to all the stories are posted here below.
The man worked hard. He and his three sons hammered and pitched each wooden plank together. Sure, people thought he was crazy, but that didn’t disturb him. He closed his ears to what others said. If he were honest, and he was, he didn’t give a hoot. He hadn’t made it so far in life by seeking the approval of others.
The other day his sons had informed him that the neighbors thought he was insane. He had laughed and told his sons to get to work before he fired them. After all, he was not only their father but their employer. No one would give them the amount of money for the kind of work they did for him. They had no choice.
The father gazed down at the oldest son, looking up at the sun, and the old man thought about the discussion they had had the night before. His sons thought he was a daydreamer and had invited a lawyer to his house without his permission. Their excuse for not telling him had him laughing. They wanted to rattle his brain.
After talking with him, the lawyer said that declaring their father as insane wouldn’t work. Besides, the majority of the judges knew him too well as that no-nonsense man that spoke what he thought.
The sons’ wives were outraged, shouting they had become the laughing stock of the whole town, maybe the whole world. They were sick and tired of people pointing fingers at them. So, what, the old man said when they had tried to explain what it meant to them not to be among the popular crowd they considered their friends. Come to my house for tea, my wife would enjoy your company, he’d answered back.
***
The temperature had risen to forty degrees Celsius. The oldest son went to get a water bottle. As he passed his brothers, their accusatory looks felt like knives in his back. He had promised that he would speak with their father alone, once more.
He grabbed a bottle of water and went in the direction of his father. His father had turned to sit, his head hung down in his bosom. Oh my, the oldest son thought. The old man has died from the heat. He almost screamed help, but his father moved his head with a strange gaze and looked upward into the sun.
“Were you taking a little nap, father?” He asked.
“No, I was listening. I got further instructions,” the old man said.
The oldest son shook his head. “Father, there is no God who talks to people. You’re making us think you’re crazy.”
“No, I’m not crazy, my son,” said the old man. “You are.”
“So, what did he tell you this time?” The eldest son asked sarcastically.
“The animals will come on the boat tomorrow. He’ll bring them here. We have to put the feed and everything else in the ship tonight. “
“Father, I want you to stop this foolishness right now,” the oldest son screamed.
The old man stood. “You and your brothers get to work. We have a lot to do before the animals come and get your wives prepared to leave, and don’t forget to bring the food rations I told you to gather.”
By the afternoon of the following day, the boat was ready to be filled. Suddenly noises from the forest neared. The animals were there, and they stood in pairs and walked peacefully into the ship. Some went on the first level, others to the second level, and the birds flew up to the third level.
“Come, Woman,” said the old man to his wife.
The three sons gazed at their wives and shrugged. The middle son said, “Let’s pacify him. He’ll never believe the foolishness he’s put us all through until we go into the boat and sit with him for an hour or two. . “In fact, if we do that,” the son rationed, “it’ll be easy to get him qualified as incompetent and incapable of conducting his own affairs.” He chuckled. “This ark is our proof.”
All three brothers and their wives followed the old man and his wife into the ark.
As soon as they were inside this big belly of an ark, they heard the mighty roar of wind; a loud bang shut the door. Locked inside, with shock on their faces, they turned to look at their father.
“How did you do that? Open that door right now!” the oldest son yelled.
“I didn’t do anything. If you want to open the door, do it yourself. I’m going up on the third deck to have my dinner with my wife.”
As their father took to the stairs, the pitter-patter sounds of rain hit against the ship’s broad side.
“What’s that noise?” Asked the youngest son.
His father stopped midway and turned. “That’s the rain, my son, that you all thought wouldn’t come.
The old man, Noah, stayed in the ark for three hundred and sixty-four days, and the greatest flood that ever was and ever will be swept across the face of the earth.
————————————————————————————————————-
Thank you for reading. Have a lovely June/July. I’ll see you in August.
It’s my pleasure to feature today, author Liza Kirazian. Lisa is a very supportive member of the Rave Reviews Book Club. Please be sure to leave a comment below to ensure that you have a chance at winning a $20 Amazon Gift Card!
Appassionato (The Music We Made—Book 2)
Appassionato, Book Two of “The Music We Made” series, continues the passionate story of the next generation of the Driscoll family of musicians as Jenny Driscoll, a composer and conductor, navigates her personal and professional life in London in the 1990’s.
Author’s Bio
Lisa Kirazian writes fiction, plays, screenplays, and also directs for stage and screen.
Her writing has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Performing Arts Magazine, San Diego Union Tribune and in many other publications. She is in demand as a speaker and has been a guest on KPBS/NPR Public Radio and at various conferences. Lisa is…
Don’t ever say that History cannot be corrected. Where there is a will, there is a way. The second edition of Our Lady Of Victory by Author Shirley Harris Slaughter has been released. It has many new updates on this historic church that will interest many.
Blurb:
This is a second edition with updates on the state of this historic church. In the original publication files were lost then resurfaced with content altered along with missing photos during transition from one publisher to another. Such is the fate of an Independent Author.
This book evolved out of years of frustration at the total disregard and lack of respect for the contributions of Black Catholics in the city of Detroit. The author says, “We are not mentioned in the pages of history along with the other Catholic churches that sprung up during the World War II era, and that needed to be corrected.” The author did fulfill one dream since publication … that this church can now be found on the web even though it has merged with another church. It is now called Presentation-Our Lady of Victory Catholic Church.
Good Morning Everyone,
Today is Day 11 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour. Author Nonnie Jules presents herself by putting her thoughts in poetic prose.
Enjoy.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Good Morning Everyone,
We’re into Day 10 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour. Today’s story features Author Joy Nwosu Lo-Bamijoko. She’s written an engaging tale that you will enjoy.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Good Morning Everyone,
Today is Day 9 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour. A new excellently written story greets you, Authored by Wendy J. Scott. Read and enjoy.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Good Morning Everyone,
This is Day 8 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour and here is an encouraging story that will lift up your Monday.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Welcome to the 2020 WATCH“RWISA”WRITE Showcase Tour!
Featured Author for Monday, 11/16/20…
RWISAAuthor, PTL Perrin!
“SUNSET”
Eden backed her Boston Whaler, Eden’s End, away from the dock, swung her nose into the current and gave the outboard a little gas. Still in the no-wake zone, her granddaughter hung over the side near the stern and trailed her hand in the water.
“Leigh, a shark’s gonna bite that thing right off.”
“No, it won’t. See the dolphins alongside?” She pointed her dripping finger at a pair of breeching dolphins. “Everyone knows they protect folks from sharks.”
Eden shook her head, grinned, and watched the sleek bodies leap through gray water until the pod outdistanced them. She’d never heard of a shark this far up the intracoastal, but she enjoyed teasing Leigh, even if the girl didn’t like it much. Besides, she wouldn’t have to put up with…
Good Afternoon Everyone,
The RWISA WRITES Showcase is in its sixth day. Today Harriet Hodgson is being featured. She is an author that has a story to tell.
Please take the time and read her remarkable heartwarming story.
Welcome to the 2020 WATCH“RWISA”WRITE Showcase Tour!
Featured Author for Saturday, 11/14/20…
RWISA Author, Harriet Hodgson!
“UNLEASHING THE ADVOCACY WARRIOR”
My husband and I live in a retirement community that has a continuum of care. He is paraplegic and I have been his caregiver since 2013. Several months ago, my husband was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. A bone scan showed the cancer had spread to many parts of his body. As my husband became weaker, I realized I needed help to care for him.
Now my husband is in a rehabilitation unit. Unfortunately, COVID-19 prevents me from seeing him. I live on the 18th floor of the high-rise and my husband lives on the third floor. We are near each other, yet so far away. Being apart from each other made us feel stressed, frustrated, and down.
Good Morning Everyone,
Another intriguing author, Linnea Tanner, and an excerpt from one of her stories on the fourth day of RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour.
Take a few minutes and enjoy this wonderful tale.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Welcome to the 2020 WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour!
Featured Author for Thursday, 11/12/20…
RWISA Author, Linnea Tanner!
“KING’S CHAMPION”
At dawn tomorrow, I compete with every reputed warrior in our kingdom to become the King’s Champion. Defeating my opponents is almost an impossible feat for any man, much less a woman. Even so, I will triumph and win my father’s respect.
As the king’s eldest daughter, I vow to protect him and everyone in his kingdom. I stand ready to defend my father in mortal combat against any challenger vying for his crown. A true champion emblazons courage, loyalty, and sacred love for her king and family. But first, I must tell you my tale that seeded my desire to combat every warrior in the kingdom and stand by my father as his champion.
When I was barely five winters old, my mother and I gathered with villagers to…
Good Morning Everyone,
For the next eleven days, RWISA will be featuring their writers in a showcase.
Come and get to know some of the best authors that we have in the world. They are not only magnificent authors but they are awesome people.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
I am super excited to be participating in the 2020 Watch “RWISA” Write Showcase! And we are kicking it off with the amazing and talented #RWISA Author, Yvette Calleiro!
Newt Heisley, with the POW/MIA flag he designed. (Copyright Don Jones Photography)
*Heisley planned to add color to the black-and-white image, but those ideas were dropped
Article by Marc Leepson.
You see it everywhere—the stark, black-and-white POW/MIA flag—flying in front of VA hospitals, post offices and other federal, state and local government buildings, businesses and homes. It flaps on motorcycles, cars and pickup trucks. The flag has become an icon of American culture, a representation of the nation’s concern for military service personnel missing and unaccounted for in overseas wars.
From the Revolution to the Korean War, thousands of U.S. soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors have been taken prisoner or gone missing. But it took the Vietnam War—and a sense of abandonment felt by wives and family members of Americans held captive—to bring forth what has evolved into the nation’s POW/MIA symbol.
The tingling of Jingle Bells heard on the streets,
Hurried, stressed, shopping,
Goose, turkey, deer, lamb or fish on the table,
That bring indigestion,
Overeating that deadens the guilty pull of our consciences,
Blinding us to the fact that over half the world is starving.
We get up from our tables,
With our plates still full of what we did not eat.
Christmas,
The celebration that has been taken over by our arrogance
Has been willfully dissected down to a small dot over the i to meet our emotional needs for belonging.
Our demands are for autonomy that separates us from the Creator who made us, demanding recognition as self-made men and women.
The virgin birth quietly disdained.
The God-Man ridiculed for such an unpopular entrance.
Unbelievable, we say.
His birth abhorred.
The Savior downgraded.
Christmas,
It’s about humiliation,
Believing in the virgin birth of the God-Man who upset the world.
Time changed from Before Christ to Anno Domini
And Salvation,
That dirty word that people seldom hear,
But when heard too often denied,
Opened the door to righteousness for all.
Though rejected by many, Love prevails.
Not in the gifts bought in department stores,
Not in the glamour of cosmetics, jewelry, or face-lifts,
Not in diamonds, silver, or gold,
Not in bonds, securities, puts, or calls,
Not in Christmas trees or cradles,
Not in boats, cars, planes, or trains,
That transport us away from the diffusion of our congregated confusion.
Christmas exists,
Because God took it upon himself to offer up the One sacrifice that would save us all.
Now Heaven’s gates are opened to all who believe.
That’s Christmas.
For God so loved the World that He gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16, The New International Version 1984 (NIV), Zondervan
Merry Christmas everyone,
Joyeux Noël à tous
Fröhliche Weihnachten an alle,
Buon Natale a tutti
It is the sixth day of December, and I am catching up after a month of NaNo (National Novel Writing Month) and three lovely days attending an online writers’ conference and book expo by RRBC from the first of December until the third of December. I now look forward to getting back into my routine.
Thanks to everyone who cheered me on during the month of November. I wrote 63,036 words on the third book of my series. Revision will start sometime next year.
Her refusal to bow down to a system that degraded people of color made her a Pariah.
She raised twelve children from different nationalities.
No one mentions the hardships of this StrongBlackWoman in the history books.
A woman who refused to bow down to a Jim Crow system.
Very few Americans talk about her.
She sang and danced,
And she spied for the French Resistance.
She became the first woman of color to star in a major motion picture production.
She defied the system.
In her own way, she challenged the erroneous lies promulgated by a nation.
Her departure from her country caused many people to breathe easier;
Some even said good riddance to this dancing woman who dared to dance at the Folies Bergères clothed in bananas.
Her banana dance was considered scandalous to the puritanical thinking bred in her country.
She helped save a nation.
Not the nation of her birth, but the nation of the people who adopted her in their hearts.
That same woman became a French Citizen and was buried in the Cimetière de Monaco.
She was the first and only American woman to receive full military honors for her funeral.
Born in Saint Louis, Missouri, in 1906, this Black Woman, an African-American, Freda Josephine McDonald, alias Josephine Baker is known as The Black Pearl.
It feels good to be back. I have not posted anything from myself on my Walk On Blog in ages, and it is about time that I started posting again.Once a month, I will feature women we have forgotten about as I have done in the past on this blog and also share some of my poetry.
Today, a revised version of a poem I released on Esther Newton’s Blog for one of her Weekly Writing Challenges.
Politics by Pat Garcia
My heart weeps.
Years filled with murder.
Women, children,
Old, young, dying,
My heart weeps.
Freedom, the way to live,
Dictators wanted,
Greed unquieted,
Power boosted,
Suppression of others routine,
And my heart weeps.
The best way, my way,
The right way, only my way,
People seen as dogs, infidels,
Breathing air, their air,
And my heart weeps.
Down through the Ages,
Past and now present,
The spirit of confusion, hatred, and death arises.
Turning men into war mongers,
Nations into furnaces,
Knives kill,
Like arrows diving pointedly into the soul,
Guns shoot,
Bombs explode,
Men, women, children die,
And my heart weeps.
Politics play,
Leaders encouraging each other,
As blood spills and soaks the ground,
The pavement,
The floor,
And my heart weeps.
Autonomy?
Monarchy?
Communism?
Socialism?
Democracy, what?
Socio-Marxism?
Dictator, ah what?
Strange bedfellows,
Do they understand?
People sent out to kill,
My heart weeps,
Listening has disappeared,
Only the cry of death can be heard,
As the politicians play the games called politics.
I’m calling you Wisdom,
Cause my heart weeps.
No one has ears to hear,
Eyes to see,
Blinded by their own greed, ambition.
They say my way is the best way,
And my heart weeps.
Shall I run,
Shall I stand,
Shall I proclaim how unique; how irreplaceable life really is?
Does no one see,
Does no one hear the wailing,
Of the child
The woman,
The man,
Oh, my heart weeps.
Yes, they sit there,
The politicians
Playing politics like a game of chess.
The men,
The women in the cabinets of this world,
Chic, but unwise,
Applauding their elite status yet knowing nothing,
For all of the writers pondering over the feasibility of writing, here are some words of encouragement from 777 Peppermint Place.
Have a great week.
Shalom,
Patricia
History is repeating itself. The age of Humanism is slowly marching off the world stage, but what comes next? Precedent historical repetition says that sooner or later another nation will rise. After all, the human race has lived through the rise and fall of many great nations. History is repeating itself.
The situation among the cultures is precarious. The Iron Curtain is slowly rising out of its sleep and finding its home among nations that want to protect their economy and the pure ethnicity of their race. Cultural diversity is leaving the stage. History is repeating itself.
The rudimentary ordinances of nature are being disobeyed. What was once one plus one equals two is now one plus one equals whatever makes you feel good. History is repeating itself.
Over one million people are on the run. The number of people who have died so far on the ground, in airplanes, in the seas is heartbreaking. Men talked, yet children cry, children die, women cry, women die. History is repeating itself.
In every corner of the world, there is tumult. Philosophical antagonism demands closed borders. An antagonism based on supremacy, it has plummeted us even nearer to a world war. It enacts to dominate, to make all men and women think alike. This antagonism has no mercy, no understanding, and no love. History is repeating itself.
“What are you doing, Child?” The Prophet asked.
“Watching the New Year come in over the earth.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“No, it’s not nice Prophet. It’s sad.”
“Why, Child. What do you see?”
“In every corner, I see children starving, women crying, human life wasted. Prophet, don’t people ever read about the past?”
The woman was heavy laden with child, and her husband looked at her with concern. Of course, he had to go. The census was mandatory. As he regarded his wife, he knew the journey would not be easy.
What is a few hundred miles or kilometers today? Catch a train to Hamburg from Frankfurt, Germany, and you arrive in four and a half hours, a plane ride from Augusta to Atlanta, Georgia is fifty-five minutes. However, this man did not have these comforts. His Mercedes-Benz was a donkey.
He observed his wife as he pondered over the trip ahead. Leaving her behind was not a consideration; in her was the hope of the nations, the salvation of the human race, and a shiver went through him as he thought of what could happen ahead. Thieves and robbers on the route and a desert where the temperature dropped at night were between the two cities, and ninety miles on a donkey was not a one-day ride. He figured he might be able to travel 10 miles a day, but even that would be hard considering that she was heavily pregnant with child.
Today the significance of this event has been revised; the hardship erased. The importance of this Child’s birth has fallen into abnormality.
Soon, it is Christmas.
For me personally, it is the time when I reflect backward to that birth in Bethlehem with Thanksgiving in my heart.
His birth changed History;
His birth changed my life and gave me a vision with purpose;
The Son of God came to earth so that I could have the right to be accepted in the Beloved.
A Civil War founded upon religious beliefs and how people should live has spread itself to the European Continent. What happened in Paris, France, was a battle, and an act of war carried out by the Islamic State. That we refused to take the declaration of war seriously in 2014 has resulted in the mass, willful, killing of innocent people, which took place on Friday, the thirteenth of November.
Religion, which oppresses, is like a dictatorship suppressing the inalienable rights of each individual who lives under its umbrella. Unfortunately, these inalienable rights, known as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are also echoed by these totalitarian societies, but they are interpreted differently, and the cultural upbringing displays a life we people in the West are not accustomed to––freedom and individual development find itself caught on the blind side of life.
Hopefully, revelation has broken through the thick skull of false reality we have let descend upon us, and our eyes have been opened to see that not everyone think as we think, act as we act, and desire to live as we live. If this were true, the Islamic State would not exist.
Unfortunately, this clarity is too late for those people who lost their lives in Paris, France on that dreadful evening.
Morning Everyone,
Aunty Acid is at it again. I love her wisdom on dealing with the obstacles of life, especially when you’re thrown a curve ball. So whatever life throws at you today, duck so it hits someone else. You don’t have to stand there and take it. You don’t have to start your week out with negativity. So duck and keep walking.
I don’t know when it happen, but I remember reading the MONDAY FUNNIES, one morning and bursting out with laughter. I was hooked on the funnies. Laughter is not typical for me before eleven a.m. If you ask the people very close to me, they will tell you, Pat is usually unapproachable before eleven.
Honestly, as a writer, I find myself experiencing highs and lows. It’s a writer madness that takes hold and motivates me to write what I see as I write about the world I live in during the early morning hours.
Thus, Chris Graham’s, CHRIS THE STORY READING APE’S BLOG has become a necessity in my life. It touches the humor within me, and laughter comes bubbling out.
Recently, Andrew Joyce, an author, sent out a dare, a seventy-nine-words dare to writers and it has been running on Chris’s blog as the Seventy-Nine-Words Story Challenge. Each week, stories are chosen as the best submitted. This week, one of my stories from The Child and The Prophet (a W.I.P.) was among the ones chosen and to be very honest with you that makes me happy.
To read my story and the stories of the other participants, please go to the link below. It’s only 79 words, and drop a line on Chris’s blog and let him know you were there and me too, of course.
Newt Heisley, with the POW/MIA flag he designed. (Copyright Don Jones Photography)
Viewpoint: A Commentary on Christmas
patgarcia ♦ December 22, 2015 ♦ 10 Comments
The woman was heavy laden with child, and her husband looked at her with concern. Of course, he had to go. The census was mandatory. As he regarded his wife, he knew the journey would not be easy.
What is a few hundred miles or kilometers today? Catch a train to Hamburg from Frankfurt, Germany, and you arrive in four and a half hours, a plane ride from Augusta to Atlanta, Georgia is fifty-five minutes. However, this man did not have these comforts. His Mercedes-Benz was a donkey.
He observed his wife as he pondered over the trip ahead. Leaving her behind was not a consideration; in her was the hope of the nations, the salvation of the human race, and a shiver went through him as he thought of what could happen ahead. Thieves and robbers on the route and a desert where the temperature dropped at night were between the two cities, and ninety miles on a donkey was not a one-day ride. He figured he might be able to travel 10 miles a day, but even that would be hard considering that she was heavily pregnant with child.
Today the significance of this event has been revised; the hardship erased. The importance of this Child’s birth has fallen into abnormality.
Soon, it is Christmas.
For me personally, it is the time when I reflect backward to that birth in Bethlehem with Thanksgiving in my heart.
His birth changed History;
His birth changed my life and gave me a vision with purpose;
The Son of God came to earth so that I could have the right to be accepted in the Beloved.
Merry Christmas to you,
Buon Natale a te,
Joyeux Noël à toi,
Frohe Weihnachten zu Ihnen,
Feliz Navidad a usted.
Shalom Aleichem,
Pat Garcia
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